Elsa's Last Snowman
by ColossalBeltloop
Summary: Every year for the past ten years, Elsa dedicates herself to a yearly outing toward a forest-covered granite hill. There, she temporarily reunites with two very special people. (Elsa-centric, implied Kristanna, Elsa/Kristoff BrOtp)


Chapter I

* * *

The sun was just barely permitted to peek over the distant horizon, shaking off wispy veils of a foggy, star-cluttered night. Tightly bundled clouds gathered up and chaotically dispersed warm rays of the pale sun before they began to break apart more evenly. Finally, broad beams of light seared through the massive white lumps of mist, tossing themselves with unhindered and unceremonious elegance across a still sleeping kingdom.

Hundreds of windows had hundreds of valances tied shut, stubbornly resistant to the brilliant gleams generously painted upon the glassy panes. Snores, groans and murmurs varied in frequency, maturity, and energy with every occupied room.

One room however, had it curtains entirely drawn open. The light of day was given full allowance to enter the tidy bedchamber, although its occupant was far from any sort of sleep.

She sat silently at her desk; ankles neatly folded under a stained oak chair. A thin, bony hand weighted with age spots and spiraling veins, still held aloft a pertinent elegance as it smoothly guided pen to paper. Her shadowy, sunken eyes still sharp and judicious— darted across her notations, deliberating any corrections or additions that needed to be made.

Corrections were not needed, but additions were inevitable. Her brows twitched. Suddenly, she lacked the flowing vision and creativity of what to append, and the drive to pursue their escape followed likewise.

The shortage of motivation pulled her further into mental relapse, as well as into the swell of her chair. She winced and blinked hard. She hated when she leaned back too far. It was difficult (and now painful) to get up again. But sometimes the relaxed posture, even when feigned, could realign her muddled facilities. She pressed her creaking spine firmly against the basket weave leather-work and sighed.

An abrupt series of knocks on her door invaded the thoughtful but aggravated silence.

"Queen Elsa? Your wake up call as you requested."

"I'm awake. You may go," came her curt response. She didn't mean to sound bad tempered, but right now all words were filtering through an irritable mind. Who knew finishing the last pages of a will could be so tedious and demanding on the conscience?

She sighed again and this time, leaned forward, dropping the pen with no semblance of elegance as before, and pushed herself away from the desk. She would go about her original plans. She didn't know how, why, or even when that morning she decided to rise from her restless sleep and intellectually binge on wills and inheritances. Perhaps it was because certain relatives were going to be visiting in a few weeks, and an urge to assure their well being, and the knowledge that she wouldn't always be there to make sure of it, prompted the impromptu intestacy session.

She steadied herself as she gradually rose to her tender feet. Her strong, remarkably lithe ankles popped in reminding displeasure to the early morning task. Elsa turned her head, eying the ornate cane that rested near her dresser. She glared at it with disapproval, as she did every morning for the past several years. It was a good thing it was inanimate, otherwise she would feel guilty for always grimacing at something that was merely doing its job.

Even in her very advanced age and slight gimp, she seemed to glide through her room, past the closet, past the dresser; past the mirror…she never bothered to look at the mirror much anymore. While she was never a vain thing, she certainly didn't need to be reminded of just how long her body had been settling, distorting and descending into age and declining health.

A thick cloak was wrapped around her sharply angled shoulders. A small, wristlet sized sling bag pulled over her powdery white head, and sunk snuggly within the dense cloak just above her collar bone. Wiry fingers rested atop the offending cane, and the other turned a cold doorknob.

In the hallway, several servants bid their good mornings to her; none of them looking as perplexed as they probably should have, considering what she was wearing in the middle of summer. But they were used to this by now. With the years quickly moving by, the cold _did _start to bother her. She sometimes felt she needed to be insulated from herself. But this was not the main reason she wore the padded fur coat.

Common gestures and cordial greetings were shared as she made her way down the stairs, with no assistance— she insisted. Aside from a small drink, she refused breakfast and made her way to the kitchen to retrieve a single item. Then she went through the back parlor and entered into a wide courtyard extending into vast acres of gently mounded hills. There was one hill in particular though, that she set her eyes on and tenaciously trekked toward. It stood taller, steeper, rockier, and lonelier than the rest. A few servants approached the nearest window that overlooked the courtyard, some shaking their heads as her gimping body became smaller in the distance, watching nervously as she wrapped the cloak tighter around herself.

Elsa's breathing was already becoming deep and resistant. She dreaded the thought, but she wondered just how long her body would allow for this kind of retreat. She wondered if it would be the ironic cause of her death. How eventual, she could not guess. Good heavens, just how long was she going to haunt these grounds? Who else was she going to outlive? How many more funerals was she going to attend? As if staring at a reflection of her nearing future, she would gaze at each corpse wordlessly reminding her, "you'll be joining us soon."

And she welcomed that taunt. So far, nothing short of a few sighs, aching joints, and slowing appendages ailed her. She couldn't prove it, but she suspected her power…this _power_ she had, provided some kind of abnormal longevity. All of her castle staff were now the children or grandchildren of previous servants. She was like a living fixture of the castle itself.

It truly was a curse.

So here she was, shuffling up a burdensome hill. The trip became more difficult every year. Her tired bones protested for retirement from this annual pilgrimage, but Elsa mostly ignored the pain that betrayed her noble features.

Just as she had done for the past ten years, her feet entered into a quiet place. The birds only chirped periodically here. The gentle breeze seemed to favor this particular real estate, and would frequently and vocally haunt it, as convincingly as any ghost could... The leaves crunched and cracked expressively under her feet. Graveyards always seem to be in a perpetual state of autumn. Even the trees themselves were continually in deadened bereavement; bent, warped and weeping with their scarlet tears shimmering from their branches, flooding an earthen floor that thinly veiled the dead beneath.

Elsa stopped before two massive stone monuments, side by side, clearly companions to one another. She bent down to brush away whatever mourning remnants the tress bestowed upon them that day, just enough to create a meager clearing.

"Hello, Anna…" she said, her voice never as steady at this point as she would have liked. "We've hit double digits haven't we…?"

She didn't have a speech. She never did. She went with whatever was in her heart at that moment; never saying more, never saying less. It was how Anna would have liked it best.

_Ten years…had it really been that long?_

With practiced, but slightly shaking hands, her fingers played through the air as if she were relaying a skillful tune. Softly and suddenly, tiny wafts of snow emerged under her palms, and a small pile of snow gathered before her. Elsa reached into her bag, pulling a pair of thick gloves over her already bluing fingers. With a slight smile that hinted at far gone childhood days, she dug her hands into the snow, diligently forming three perfect little spheres, each smaller than the one before. She carefully aligned them vertically. Elsa then grabbed two small twigs, each with gnarled little finger-like digits at the ends, and stuck them on either side in the middle. She then reached within her small purse again and produced several tiny black buttons, which she meticulously dotted into the top snowball, creating two shining eyes and a smile. Finally, a baby carrot was held between her thumb and forefinger, which she gently pushed in just under the eyes.

She then shifted the tiny snowman within the clearing and centered it accordingly. After a few minor adjustments, she stood up and took a step back, taking in a deep breath as she surveyed her handiwork.

"Because I knew you would ask…" came a voice she could hardly recognize or control. A chill she only got in this place, heavily shook through her. She closed her eyes momentarily, taking in another deep breath, trying to realign her fragile emotions. She turned her head slightly.

Before her eyes could redden any more, they rested upon the other small clearing, which lay before a loftier headstone.

"And don't think I forgot about you, Kristoff," she said with a bittersweet smile, her hands working that similar tune within the musty air, but this time, sheets and layers of ice intricately folded and morphed in his clearing; and within seconds, a crystalline, scruffily defined reindeer stood, dramatically feigning nobility, and a touch of obvious humor in its placid eyes.

A deep chuckle helped balance her being again. Kristoff definitely would have appreciated the little tribute.

The smile faded into a reflective fixation on the scene. Even after a decade, it still felt dreary and foreign to stand before them in this manner…

For a long time, before she knew of her lasting longevity, Elsa had no doubt in believing that she would be the first to 'go.' It seemed right. She was the oldest. And if her sister and brother-in-law were going to mourn, they could do so in the comfort of each other's arms. At the very least, she certainly didn't think she would outlast Kristoff and his herculean vigor.

As the years advanced into thinning skin, graying hair and stiffening joints, Elsa made many preparations for the day that she would leave this world. Without any grandstanding or attention seeking, she quietly penned down titles and obligations to her beneficiaries. All such boring jurisdictions would be taken up more leniently if she didn't believe that _any day now, it might happen_. _Tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, it __**will**__ happen, and soon._ She left nothing to chance in order to be certain that the entire family was taken care of.

So it came to her complete shock and breathless dismay when she found out that Anna…boisterous, rowdy, lively, _healthy_, stamina-incarnate Anna…was the first to go.

While she lived an unusually long life herself, her death all but reconstituted a buried memory of isolated hibernation, which Elsa instinctively retreated to, shutting her door— locking it…leaning against it—curling in on herself— knowing very well that a certain someone would never knock on it again.

She wanted to, but in her tightened shoulders and weak knees, Elsa found she had no strength to look for Kristoff, or try to bring him any sort of comfort. Kristoff did not seek her out. He didn't seek anyone out.

His sanity was as brittle as the strands of deadened hair. Wherever Anna's body was moved, he followed. It was unhealthy. It was manic. It was not Kristoff. His face was red and strained and terrifying to look at. His grown children watched, but stayed away, weeping among themselves— panged that they could not reach out to their father; doing so would be like getting bit by a grizzly. The servants dared not to suggest moving or even touching him, because he would become unrecognizably dangerous.

Elsa seemed to be the only person that _could_ recognize him anymore, and she understood. All efforts became relegated to the funeral. Its preparation took less than half the time as usual; for Kristoff's sake, and probably her own.

When the service had commenced and finished, the closest family members lingered, but not as long as Kristoff and Elsa. There seemed to be a silent agreement to leave them, no matter how dismal or emotionally sore some of them felt. Elsa watched from a short distance as Kristoff's thinner, yet still hefty frame sat cross-legged by the grave, his fingers working with needless tidying. He knew Elsa was near, but he couldn't adjust his gaze.

Just as Elsa was about to speak— Kristoff stood— and she silenced herself. Kristoff then started making some unusual marks in the ground with his heel next to Anna's headstone.

"So I'm going to be buried here," he looked up at her sternly. "Okay? Please?"

It was the most demanding plea she'd ever heard, and she was not offended by it.

"Well…we might have to shift it over a little, you're still rather big," a small smile played on her lips as she said this. Kristoff didn't return it, but his eyes softened. He then looked back to Anna's occupied portion of the earth. Kristoff and Elsa both said nothing for a time. All the castle grounds that day were silent in respect for the dead.

It seemed that with no more words needing to be spoken, Elsa finally dared to approach the bristly, sharp-eyed, rugged old mountain man. He stood tall but with his head low, a touch of his old-self glinting in his eyes; a new found shame accompanying it.

A small, cold hand tucked itself into a large, trembling one.

Elsa's moist eyes studied him carefully. Kristoff's features hardened, becoming statuesque. A chill… those rare things Elsa never felt anymore, dug harshly into her now. She didn't know how much they would burden her in the future. She stared with growing fear at this very still, very ghostly Kristoff. She shook her head so subtly it was nearly subconscious. She could not, _would not_ allow Kristoff to become some kind of maniacal monument here. He needed to be shaken out of this. Her fingers slowly tightened, the alarm in her conscience somehow stirring his own. When there seemed to be mutual recognition in this, Elsa took her chance, the window of opportunity as thin as a spider's web, as she slowly but firmly began to pull him away from the grave.

Like a towering, creaking castle gate that had not been opened in centuries, Kristoff turned, his own bones groaning and shifting heavily.

Finally…_finally _he stepped away. Away from the headstone. Away from the grave.

Away from Anna.

Had anyone of the castle been watching, they would have done so in marveling disbelief. Elsa might as well be leading a lion by a leash. No one had so much as grazed against Kristoff's shoulder in days, for fear of being torn in half. He was still plenty capable of such. But not a shred of that feverish ferocity remained, as he silently complied with Elsa leading him to the courtyard. As they went, Elsa took one last look behind her before the hill descended. A tiny smile, and another round of quiet tears danced in her eyes as she noticed two massive footprints deeply entrenched by Anna's side, and she squeezed Kristoff's hand tighter.

That evening, Kristoff called for his children and their families, pleading and hugging all of them; dreading his aggressiveness toward a brood that— after all— belonged to him and Anna. They accepted his apologies without hesitation, showering him with genuine love and consoling. Holding no comforts back, they warmed him with their presence and their insistent huddling, and even a few rings of laughter colored the once gloomy atmosphere. Anna wouldn't want them to be so miserable. Kristoff actually smiled. He should have known.

Hours later, he bid everyone goodnight in peace. While the repentance brought welcome harmony back to his family ties, Kristoff's smile faded as he entered the dark, towering halls leading to his bedchamber. His eyes became glassy again. His lungs fiercely demanded substantial amounts of air. His face contorted painfully. His eyes stung with the inevitable onslaught of open weeping.

Youthful days were suddenly assailing him. Anna's laughter, her voice, her touch, her warmth, her love, were all felt as if they were _real_ where he stood. Tiny details he thought were lost in the thickened nothingness of dim, cloudy memories, suddenly burst through in the form of hot, pouring tears.

He reached out. She wasn't there. He whispered her name, and heard his own shuddering echo. His eyes were locked shut and he couldn't open them. He chocked and gasped throatily, forcing every fiber of his being to barricade the wails that wished to bring the walls crumbling down on top of him.

Lurching forward, he stumbled headlong across a threshold into an empty guest bedroom; because he was incapable of entering his own.

* * *

The next morning, the inner storm that raged within the stocky mountain man had passed, and was known by no one. It left no lingering destruction in his features to reveal otherwise, and he greeted everyone with the same fondness as before.

As the days went on, Kristoff grew quieter and even gentler. His voice was soft and assuring. His eyes were airy and alive, but notably distant, like he was always seeing something...or someone... far off.

When not staring silently at the snowy mountains beyond the fjord, Kristoff was helping with things more than he should have, though with much less practiced grace. He affectionately doted on and treated the children of the servants. He gave plentiful bear hugs to his own kids and impressed them by showing that he could still lift each one off the ground. He played any song at their request on his beautifully aged lute.

He only made one simple request to everyone— and it was to not disturb or enter his bedchamber. They understood solemnly. Kristoff did not disclose for how long, but he wanted it to remain as it was for the time being.

Not knowing any better, Kristoff's amends and reestablished sanity came as a relief to the castle staff. His old spirits returned even kinder; although all seemed to notice how much slower and lumbering he had become. He never quite recovered after Anna's death, and for this, he was treated more carefully, but otherwise the same.

Elsa however, watched warily. She sensed all of this was a catalyst for something very different; something that made her heart tremble and her breath catch feebly. She lived far too long not to realize that something was going to happen. The distress robbed her of her sleep. The intuition forced her to sneakily check up on him every few hours. She intended to share these instinctive musings with his children, but by the time she entered their quarters and took in the sight of their quiet demeanors and dark eyes, it was clear that they knew it too.

And they were all right.

But it didn't hurt as much as they thought it would. In fact…they were happy for him.

One evening, Kristoff was gazing out the window of his own bedroom. He hadn't been in it since his last breakdown. He was slightly embarrassed that he had experienced more than one, but he felt his reasons were justifiable enough. And he knew why he was in his bedroom now. _Their_ bedroom…

Just as the sun was setting and throwing its last rays over the dense summer hill tops, Kristoff stared and seemed to nod in agreement with it. Barely a week after Anna's funeral, Kristoff had exhausted his remaining physical and emotional resources in attending to others, spoiling them in any way he could. He was grateful he got the chance. Not everyone does. And now…there was someone else he wanted to attend to spoil forever.

He was done. He made the decision that he simply could not tolerate Anna's absence any longer. His heart was terminally ill and begging for rest.

He kicked off his boots and turned away from the window. The sun warmed his back as he walked across the room, the floor creaking noisily beneath his sluggish but eager steps. He crawled unto Anna's side of the bed. With his great strength drained by age and sorrow, he used what little he had left to bury his cheek into her pillow, taking in bountiful breaths through his nostrils, her lingering scent filling his aching lungs, and giving him enough comfort to dry the tears shining under his closed eyes.

And there… his sleep became eternal.


End file.
